'Linné selected a tiny wild-flower that he discovered, of exquisite
beauty and delicious odour, to bear his name--one that refuses to
exchange the silent glen and melancholy wood for the more gay parterres
of horticulture.'--_Rambles in Sweden and Gottland, by Sylvanus_.
'Tis a child of the old green woodlands,
Where the song of the free wild bird,
And swaying of boughs in the summer breeze,
Are the only voices heard.
In the richest moss of the lonely dells
Are its rosy petals found,
With the clear blue skies above it spread,
And the lordly trees around.
In those still, untrodden solitudes
Its lovely days are passed;
And the sunny turf is its fragrant bier
When it gently dies at last.
But if from its own sweet dwelling-place
By a careless hand 'tis torn,
And to hot and dusty city streets
In its drooping beauty borne,
Its graceful head is with sorrow bowed,
And it quickly pines and fades;
Till the fragile bloom is for ever fled
That gladdened the forest glades.
It will not dwell 'neath a palace dome,
With rare exotic flowers,
Whose perfumed splendour gaily gleams
In radiant festal hours:
It loves not the Parian marble vase,
On the terrace fair and wide;
Or the bright and sheltered garden bowers
Smiling in gorgeous pride.
But it mourns for the far-off dingles,
For their fresh and joyous air,
For the dewy sighs and sunny beams
That lingered o'er it there.
O lonely and lovely forest-flower!
A holy lot is thine,
Amid nature's deepest solitudes,
With radiance meek to shine.
Bright blossom of the shady woods!
Live on in your cool retreat,
Unharmed by the touch of human hand,
Or the tread of careless feet;
With the rich green fern around your home,
The birds' glad song above,
And the solemn stars in the still night-time
Looking down with eyes of love!